Talking mule not pleased with new neighbors

By Leon Hale |
October 6, 2011

Several of the customers have lately been asking about my friend the talking mule. They wonder why I don't have him in the paper more often.

They don't seem to understand the difficulties involved in carrying on a conversation with a mule. This is a particular mule. He's like an uppity movie star, who may talk to a journalist on a given day, and he may not.

I've seen the mule a number of times in the past three or four months, but he has not said enough to make me an entire day's work.

One hot afternoon in September, I stood flat-footed in front of that animal and stated that I was pleased to see him again. You know what he said?

Not a word. He stomped a forefoot, swished his tail at a cloud of flies, and walked off into the brush.

Why? Probably because he thought I was hiding somebody in my pickup. Somebody, that is, who wanted to hear him talk. You may recall that this mule will not speak to me unless I'm alone. So I have never managed to prove that he really talks.

Some of the customers have wondered why he's reluctant to speak in the presence of more than one person. I have no clue. You'd have to ask the mule, and good luck with getting an answer.

It's interesting to me that a couple of the customers have complained about an opinion this animal has delivered. Look, all I do is tell you what the mule says. I don't necessarily agree with him, and I have no control over his opinions.

Last week, we had some nice cool mornings, and, in normal times, such weather makes many farm animals frisky. You may see them performing joyful lopes along fence lines.

However, these are not normal times. The rain gods have deserted us since last spring, and everybody from mules to millionaires is in a bad humor about it.

Last Monday, I saw the mule standing in his pasture, a couple of hundred yards from the blacktop. His head was down, and he wouldn't even look my way when I called and waved.

My guess is, he was still grieving about the tree. His favorite tree, a gnarly old post oak, has died in this drought. For years when he needed shade in the hottest part of the day, he'd stand and doze under that post oak. There are other trees, sure, but he was used to that one.

"Losing my tree," he told me, "is enough to make a mule cry." But that's all he had to say.

During this time when he's not talking much, I've been checking my notes, on the questions the customers have asked and the statements they've made concerning my mule friend.

I've heard from a good many disbelievers. They don't think the mule actually talks, but they do read what he has to say. Now and then I meet people who assure me they believe the mule's every word, and that's good to hear.

Once at the supermarket, in the produce department, I met a nice lady wearing a big straw hat. She said she can't believe the mule talks but she believes I believe he talks and that makes it OK. I don't know what to think about that.

A few of the customers have been disappointed that the mule is not political. They'd like to hear a mule comment on current races and candidates and debates. He's not interested, though.

Best thing about this mule, other than his speech capability, is that he's full of surprises. Now hear this:

The last time I had a brief meeting with him, he complained about goats. He's already on record as hating cows. He thinks they're stupid. Now he hates goats as well, not because they're stupid, but because they're smart.

The ranch he lives on recently sold off all its cows because its pastures had no grass, due to the drought. The cows were replaced by a flock of goats, brought in to browse on brush.

All those smart-alecky goats were running the mule insane. Notice I'm not quoting him directly on this matter. He can't utter one sentence about a goat without using a spectacular string of profanity that my editors would never print.

In the years I've known him, I've never heard the mule use a word you couldn't speak in church. But those goats inspired him.

Listen, I've heard some of the world's foremost cussers. Drill sergeants. Football coaches. Tool pushers. But not one of those could cuss in the same league with this mule.

If there'd been any grass left under his feet, it would have turned brown. In fact, that cuss storm may be what killed his shade tree.